


Where the Humans Eat

by scarrletmoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Demon Deals, Demons, Episode: s02e08 Crossroad Blues, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarrletmoon/pseuds/scarrletmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the roof, Sherlock hesitates, and John dies before Sherlock can jump. Sherlock makes a deal with a demon to bring John back, but at what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Humans Eat

He couldn't.  
  
He stood on that roof and watched the crowd surround his only friend, and he hated them- he hated that they were the first ones there, that they were the ones who saw his friend fall and flocked to him; they had no right, not when they didn't know John like  _he_   did, even though it was  _his_  fault-  
  
He ran. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, and when he blinked, his eyes stung. He landed on a step the wrong way and nearly twisted his ankle, but he kept going, kept running and hoping, hoping that somehow their sniper had missed or that maybe something impossible had happened that didn't involve-  
  
John's body was cold.  Sherlock still checked his wrist, held on and pushed as many people out of the way that he could just to make sure, even though it was obvious in the blood that still pooled under the John's head and the wound and the bullet still lodged somewhere in his brain, and the doctor's wide, lifeless eyes and the face that still held the shock after the initial impact of the shot-  
  
They pulled him away eventually- pried his fingers off John's wrist and stuffed him into the back of a car. Let him stare through the window as John's body was wheeled away, until the car rounded a corner and Sherlock couldn't see him anymore. Let him sit in silence for what felt like hours, driving aimlessly through London until the buildings and the city melted into housing estates and hedges.   
  
"I told you before, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, watching as his brother continued to gaze blankly at nothing-  
  
" _Caring_  is not an advantage," Sherlock finished bitterly.   
  
Mycroft lapsed into silence.   
  
They left him back at Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson had heard the news by then (saw it too, in the worst way- the doctor's name on the TV screen and the crowds and reporters, the word  _death_  floating around like it was nothing- it was news. That was all).   
  
She cried.   
  
For a while, there was nothing. He would have been more worried about it, about the empty silence and the thoughts (so much fewer than normal) that rattled around in all that space. There was a word, one that circled and reappeared no matter how many times he tried not to think about it, until eventually, he gave up and let it in.   
  
 _Failure_. He'd failed.   
  
He spent a long time on his bed that night, enough that Mrs. Hudson's sobbing died down and the sun set, enough that Lestrade came and went without getting a word out of him, enough that eventually the full moon rose and he realized that he  _couldn't_ go on without-  
  
He needed John Watson.   
  
It was an impossible task. It demanded that he disregard anything he believed in- he'd looked at these options before, known and reminded himself that they were impossible.  He knew that he could not reproduce Frankenstein's creation, nor was he stupid enough to try. Yet he turned to lore and hid it from his brother, because he knew how Mycroft would pity him and tell him to stop- just like how he'd pitied his brother when he'd packed Sherlock's bags and sent him away when the cocaine had started. Sherlock turned to witchcraft and spells, and eventually , he turned to demons.   
  
The crossroads. There were songs written about those roads, stories passed down that were older than human memory; they were the roads where gifts were bought and souls sold, where greed flourished and demons sealed their deals with blood bonds and contracts.   
  
All it took was a box. There was one already there when Sherlock found his crossroad, and it was old- at least ninety years, in fact. The hinges were starting to rust away. Sherlock put aside his own box to use the old one. He was strangely drawn to the older box, and he briefly wondered what had brought the last man here. He would have deduced the answer had his hands not been shaking with the anxiety which compelled him to hurry. As he brushed the earth back over the box, he was met with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach- something heavy and filled with dread, something guilty and dirty.   
  
Sherlock turned and found nothing but the empty, painfully silent darkness. There was nothing but the light he held in his trembling hand. There was no one here.   
  
He'd failed, and he was an idiot. How could he have believed that this would work? This, which was mere fanciful thinking and fairytales-  
  
"Now here's a soul they've been fighting for downstairs."  
  
It felt like his skin was crawling- every hair on his body stood on end and it felt like something was crawling right under his skin, something filthy and shameful and horrifying. The voice was familiar-  
  
"I thought I'd pick a familiar face," she said, and against the hardened earth, her shoes almost clicked.   
  
He turned, slowly, looked over the familiar white dress and the blood-red shoes.   
  
"Irene."   
  
Her eyes flicked to black as he watched, and the thing inside her smiled.   
  
"No. Meridia, actually, but, " she waved her hand dismissively, "who needs details?"  
  
"She's-"  
  
"Oh, she's not dead." She laughed, and Sherlock flinched. "She's crawling around in here somewhere…but  don't you look _terrible_." Her eyes  scanned Sherlock's body (thinner and weaker than before, tired and broken). "The consulting detective without his doctor…this is what it looks like, hmm?"  
  
Sherlock ignored it. "You can bring him back," he said instead, clenching his hands into fists to stop his hands shaking, keeping his voice a lot more calm than he felt.   
  
She smiled again, and the demon twisted Irene's face into a pitying sneer. "But what if he's happy where he is?" she asked, tilting her head innocently. "Did you ever think of that, Mr. Holmes?" She took another step closer, leaned in and put a carefully painted finger on his chest. "Maybe he doesn't _want_ to come back."  
  
Sherlock clenched his jaw. He'd considered it, multiple times, and it was the only thing to ever make him hesitate. For a moment, he was tempted to just walk away, to give himself another day to really think. To make sure he really needed to do this.   
  
"Or he could be burning in hell right as we speak, screaming for someone to save him," she added softly, moving her hand to cup his cheek.  
  
His lips were on hers in an instant, desperate and terrified, and she laughed against his mouth as she pulled him in with an arm around his neck.   
  
"Ten years," she whispered, brushing the words onto his lips. "Ten years with your doctor, Sherlock Holmes."  
  
By the time he'd opened his eyes again, she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago on Tumblr, someone posted a Sherlock/Supernatural photoset where Sherlock had to say goodbye to John because of the deal he'd made to bring the doctor back and I thought 'you know what, I should torture myself by writing this'- so I did.
> 
> There'll be another part, I hope- maybe 3, if I want a happy ending.


End file.
